Faith

An urban parable

True story, bro. But, in parable form. Hollah.

Flower

A road had some buildings. The buildings were stone and cement and concrete, and tightly compact.

A wayfarer’s journey brought her to the front stoop of one of the buildings.

A woman passed by and saw the wayfarer.

“Do you know the man who works here?” The woman demanded.

The wayfarer knew of him, but little more.

“Well,” the woman said, “he’s this and he’s that…” and she cursed his name and his people and what he stood for and everything else she could think of that was connected to him.

“Oh,” said the wayfarer.

“And!” said the woman, “You can tell him I said that,” and then she sauntered away, down the concrete road.

Later, a few days later, the wayfarer came back to the road, to the building. And the man who worked there happened by as well.

“I met some who knew you,” the wayfarer said.

“Oh?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the wayfarer, “it was a woman. She had a lot to say about you. She wasn’t very happy. She cussed you out.”

“Oh.” Said the man, and he smiled.

Gently, lovingly, the wayfarer saw him consider a response. He finally opened his mouth to address this cussing-woman, and he used these words: “My sister.”

Just like that, with one word of merciful familiarity, he released the hard words, the curses, like they were nothing more than a weightless butterfly.

The wayfarer knew well that they were not linked by parents, these two so far apart. But, apparently his heart had adopted the woman just as easily as it had forgiven her.

It made the wayfarer think a lot about burdens. For, who was punished and held captive by these ugly words and phrases?

I do not think it was the man. Forgiveness seemed to keep his soul free.

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